


vienna waits for you

by mafuyuukis (aslanjades)



Category: Given (Anime), Given (Manga)
Genre: Brief Mentions of Haruki, Canon Compliant, M/M, Post Break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslanjades/pseuds/mafuyuukis
Summary: “Do you regret leaving Vienna?” is what Akihiko said then, still a teenager and still believing in a concept of love that was idealistic and kind. But what he meant was,do you regret meeting me? That change was good, wasn’t it?Ugetsu turned his head towards him, dark hair falling into his face, and chuckled a little. And even as Akihiko met his eyes, even as he sensed desperation swirling in that violent green sea, Ugetsu only breathed out a simple, “Oh, Aki.”Ugetsu and Akihiko cross paths for the first time since October. Ugetsu reflects on the past, struggles with the present, and looks towards the future.
Relationships: Kaji Akihiko/Murata Ugetsu
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	vienna waits for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vyxnilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyxnilla/gifts).



IN HIS HEAD, Ugetsu Murata keeps a numbered list of things he hates.

Number seven, right above television and all of its shitty, time-wasting programs (a distaste fostered by his father, who either kept the news or sitcoms with god-awful one-liners on when he was around), is sweetened coffee. He only drinks his coffee black, as he’s told his manager, his personal assistant, and anyone else who needs to know. It’s bitter, an acquired taste just as alcohol is, but it gets the job done; he’s energized with no frills, and it’s damn near impossible to fuck up. 

No milk, no creamer, and absolutely no sugar. His insomnia is already bad enough as it is. 

At number four is the distinct odor of cigarette smoke. Much like he doesn’t do anything about anything else on the list, he does nothing about it—still smokes in his house with no ventilation—but even as the smoke envelopes him, he’s conscious of the smell. It’s acrid. Toxic. It was once at number six, but the absence of the one person who served as a distraction from it led to it rising in the ranks.

And at number one, past all of the trivial things that shouldn’t bother him nearly as much as they do, is change.

When Ugetsu returned home after studying music in Vienna for three years, having first left when he was just on the borderline between being a child and becoming a teenager in an attempt to follow the footsteps of Brahms and Mahler among others, he experienced something akin to culture shock. In Vienna, everyone was so fixated on their own evolution, so engrossed in becoming the next name beside the composers and performers the city had already fostered. Their social lives inevitably took the backseat (aside from making connections to benefit from down the line; even children knew about exploitation), because no one gave a fuck about who Mozart was friends with. 

Tokyo was the same in a way, because even if he was back in his homeland, he was still some new, shiny object that came from overseas (now proficient in English and German—if anything, his ability to articulate in his native tongue had regressed), and therefore most interest in him was disingenuine; people were curious about his life abroad and violin mastery. Yet, unlike Vienna, there was always something beyond that, always a request to hang out or eat lunch together or participate in some social activity that Ugetsu had become horribly unequipped to handle after years of prioritizing practice before everything else. Luckily, most times, a pretty excuse warded off the invitations, and most knew to stop asking after being declined the first two or three times.

That was how things went—until Ugetsu met Akihiko Kaji, whose charms and delicacy and fire he couldn’t resist nor let go of once he captured it. Before he knew it, in a series of events after an encounter one might deem fateful, Akihiko became his first friend, moved in, and secured a previously vacant space in his heart.

And as they sat in that dim, soundproof basement— _their_ dim, soundproof basement, or, better yet, their safe haven—one day, Ugetsu declared that nothing had ever changed for the better for him. And he couldn’t see Akihiko’s reaction, as they both had their backs to the mattress they shared and faced the ceiling, but he could just imagine those forest green eyes narrowing, those lips pursing.

“Do you regret leaving Vienna?” is what Akihiko said then, still a teenager and still believing in a concept of love that was idealistic and kind. But what he meant was, _do you regret meeting me? That change was good, wasn’t it?_

Ugetsu turned his head towards him, dark hair falling into his face, and chuckled a little. And even as Akihiko met his eyes, even as he sensed desperation swirling in that violent green sea, Ugetsu only breathed out a simple, “Oh, Aki.”

It was insufficient. He knew it was. He knows it was. But he didn’t—doesn’t have an answer. 

Ugetsu hates change—so he keeps everything in his life constant. 

He only plays the violin, despite the fact that with the extensive knowledge of music theory and instrument structure he has, he could pick up the viola or cello or mandolin and master it with little to no difficulty. Violin is safe. No matter how much time he spends away (though it’s never too long), the pegs and strings remain in the same place, patiently awaiting his return. 

Similarly, whenever he’s at home, he visits the same bar; just one in the sea of spots Tokyo has to offer. Tucked into an alleyway, the red glow of the sign outside washes over him whenever he stands before the entrance, pulling him in. It’s cramped—there’s usually no more than five people there aside from him, all divvied up into their own little cliques so the fact that he’s alone is painfully apparent—and perhaps the last place someone like him, with billboards of his face plastered around the country, is expected to be, but he gets tired of lavish environments and expensive wine sometimes. A lot of times. Most times.

He stumbled into this place one day and he liked it. Or he liked the bartender who created a devilish call and response with him, who flirted back when Ugetsu uttered suggestive lines he didn’t mean. Maybe the guy was just trying to rack up a good tip (and if that was the case then that he did), but even then, it didn’t matter much. Ugetsu wasn’t seriously interested in him either. They both had ulterior motives in the end, so he allowed himself to be entertained, to be used, and took advantage of the fact that he could use him too. 

They do that dance constantly. Ugetsu would go so far as to say he enjoys it. It makes him feel something in the same way that sitting alone in a closed off space he once shared surrounded by the suffocating scent of smoke from his own dwindling cigarette does—reminds him he’s alive. That he can still ache and lust and sense, that being alone doesn’t make him broken.

So he sits on his designated stool, the stool kept just for him by the bartender whose shift he always times his visits to coincide with, and he braces himself to look up to the usual grin or wink or gaze he’s welcomed with by swallowing down all of his other emotions to be right there. Fixed in that moment in space and time. To, for a few hours, drink his sorrows away and feel something bordering on happiness again.

Except when he looks up, the sight he sees isn’t welcoming. Rather, he’s met with green eyes he hasn’t seen in the flesh for months and startled features—raised brows, slightly parted lips, a lax jaw—surrounding them. 

He‘s looked at as though he’s a ghost. If Ugetsu wasn’t so taken aback, he would bitterly laugh, but all he can do is breathe out two syllables so quietly that it can almost be perceived as a trick of the wind. “Aki.”

For the first time in a while, Ugetsu is made acutely aware of his appearance. He’s never properly done his hair—never cared to when he could just let it do its own thing and capitalize off the messy look—but Akihiko would always brush the strands into place for him, making them look somewhat presentable. Without him there to fix him up (like he’s a fucking kid, Ugetsu realizes), his hair no longer appears effortless; it’s untidy. And the dark circles under his eyes aren’t so endearing either.

But Akihiko . . . Akihiko looks good. He’s always looked good, but he looks better now, possessing a mature comeliness that didn’t or couldn’t exist when he was with Ugetsu and photos posted on social media (which Ugetsu still follows. Spare him.) can’t capture. Behind that shocked expression, Ugetsu can sense light. Something he snuffed out of him has returned, and it’s both radiant and absolutely sickening.

“What are you doing here?” The words come off harsher than Ugetsu intended. They’re flat, mostly hollow, but they still possess a certain sharpness that comes to Ugetsu so naturally. 

“I work here part-time. I’m covering a shift.”

Surprisingly, his voice mirrors Ugetsu’s with its bored tone and underlying edge. He’s creating a boundary, Ugetsu notices, drawing a line in the sand as though they’re enemies on opposite sides, presumably because he knows he’ll soften if he gets too close.

Smart.

Ugetsu places down a 2000 yen note for the cover charge he’s already too familiar with and leans forward to spread his arm down the width of the counter, laying his head across the junction between his shoulder and upper arm with a bitter smile on his lips. “Well, I’m here to get fuckin’ drunk. But you didn’t ask, did you?”

Akihiko lets his eyes linger on him for a moment, but in the dim light, Ugetsu can’t use his expertise on the subject of Kaji Akihiko to decipher what the look means. After he’s done with his visual assessment, Akihiko wordlessly turns around and begins to work. Pressing buttons on the cash register. Pausing to converse with other bargoers. Taking a glance at Ugetsu and beginning to pour drinks.

“I didn’t tell you what I wanted.”

He sets three shots of whiskey in front of him anyway, and it’s precisely both Ugetsu’s choice liquor and number of starting shots. If he’d purged details about Ugetsu from his memory to ensure that he followed through with the break up, he at least remembered this. 

Ugetsu can’t help but grin a bit wider.

Satisfied, he watches the alcohol ripple from the force of the glass hitting the counter, the way it surges up and crashes against the glass’s walls, and sits up only to down the shot. The burn of it as it travels down exhilarates him.

“How’s the boyfriend?”

The question is punctuated by the sound of the glass hitting the counter. 

“I’m working.”

And Ugetsu laughs. It _is_ humorous in a twisted sort of way how this is the same Akihiko who would call off of his seemingly infinite amount of part time jobs just to be home to greet Ugetsu with waiting arms and a waiting mouth when he arrived back home from abroad. Work was so avoidable a barrier that came between them that it could hardly be considered such. “So?”

“I don’t have time for small talk—“

“Make time.” 

And the look Akihiko gives him with those words is unmistakable. It’s pity, etched into his eyes, into his furrowed brows, into his downturned lips. Number three on the list of things Ugetsu hates is being pitied, and if it were tangible, _by Akihiko_ would be scribbled next to it in parentheses. “I mean, what, so you’re going to sit here and serve me like I’m just a customer? Like we’ve never met? We can’t even be friendly?”

“You know we can’t.”

Ugetsu’s face twists into a scowl. Akihiko is right—painfully so; their idea of being friendly with one another has ended with fucking or having their hands at each other’s throats or both for years now. But they’d gotten so good at lying to themselves that it almost didn’t matter.

“You’re so cold,” Ugetsu utters, grabbing the next glass in the line. He downs the shot and slams onto the counter again, pausing to relish in the clamoring sound it makes before chasing it down with the other. In one last sweeping motion, he pushes the glasses towards Akihiko, hardly recoiling when they come dangerously close to the edge of the mahogany. “More.”

And thus, his descent into drunkenness begins.

For Ugetsu, the curious thing about drinking is that its effects differ from those provided by nicotine so slightly, yet still so drastically. They both induce a buzz of sorts, but if nicotine dampens the fire that wages between that devastatingly fragile flesh and bone, alcohol is akin gasoline dumped onto it. It makes him more volatile than he is sober, drags up all of those emotions he’s buried deep down to make living less agonizing.

This time, there’s no handsome, obliging bartender to distract him. It’s just him, Akihiko, and a barrel of unresolved feelings, and Ugetsu isn’t good at keeping a lid on things.

“It’s unfair,” Ugetsu mumbles, five shots deep. It’s strange, he thinks, how he can feel like he’s both floating and sinking at the same time. Fingers gripping the still frigid shot glass now devoid of its contents, he taps it against the countertop, feeling the vibrations in his fingertips. “I tried to leave you so many times, Aki. I wanted to but never could, so I was just _waiting_ for you to leave me. And then you _did_ . . . and now you get to be happy. It was that easy for you, so what about me? When does everything start making sense? I mean—fuck—what was the point?

“You had your boyfriend to run to and I had what? Music? Well, let me tell you, it gets really fucking lonely when you’re playing alone. I can play whatever I want, but I sat in Sydney asking myself what it mattered if you weren’t listening. You distracted the fuck out of me, but you also made it make sense. Now, even with an orchestra, it’s like it’s just me up there and I’m by myself and . . .”

Upon realizing he’s aired out more than intended, Ugetsu’s first instinct is to snap his mouth shut. The sound ceases in the process, but his mind keeps speaking. _And it’s lonely. It’s so, so lonely. They don’t listen the way you did. They listen to the strings, to the slides and the vibrato. You listened to me._

He looks up, expecting Akihiko’s eyes to be elsewhere, but he’s looking at him. 

He was listening. The thought makes Ugetsu laugh. He’s always listened.

Akihiko doesn’t say anything grandiose—not that Ugetsu expected him to, not when he has a boyfriend waiting for him not too many miles away. Instead, his response comes in the form of the utterance of a simple, obvious, “You’re drunk.”

“That’s the point.” Ugetsu drawls. “What are you gonna do about it? Take me home?”

With that, something that’s already been pulled taut snaps. “Ugetsu.” 

If Akihiko’s defenses were up before, they’ve been thoroughly reinforced now.

The laugh that Ugetsu forces out is almost as bitter as the liquor in his system. “You made me like this, you know. It’s only fair that you take responsibility—”

“ _Ugetsu_. Stop.” 

“I drove, okay? If you don’t take me home, I’ll just drive shitfaced and bust my pretty head open on the steering wheel—”

Akihiko brings the side of his fist to the wood, and while Ugetsu stays put, the empty glasses shift ever so slightly; it’s the only indication that the world hasn’t stopped. Akihiko draws his fist to his side, clearly making an attempt to pass it off as an accident with a sheepish smile flashed to those around him, but Ugetsu knows him too well to be convinced, knows that they bring out a fire in one another that no one else can beckon forth. Knows that he’s successfully awakened an Akihiko that was laid to rest with a spoken goodbye and a squeeze of a hand.

Knows that neither that Akihiko nor the one standing before him, looking older and less naive, can say no to him. And he knows he’s a piece of shit for capitalizing off of it, but he’s gotten so good at it. So good that even when Akihiko softens, even when he returns back to the man he’s become after months spent apart, he pulls a set of car keys from a pocket of his apron and sets them down in front of Ugetsu.

“My shift ends in,” He checks his watch, “fifteen minutes. The car’s in the lot on the left of the alley exit. Go sit and, please, don’t fuck with anything.”

“Car?” Ugetsu slides his finger through the keyring, letting the keys accompanying them hang as he raises them to eye level. Knowingly, he utters, ”These aren’t your keys.”

“My bike is in the shop,” is the only explanation Akihiko offers. “Click the top button on the big key to blink the lights. Go.”

With that, Ugetsu obediently stands, using the counter for leverage, and heads for the bar’s exit. Before he can leave, though, he glances over his shoulder, a perfect re-enactment of the scene from a certain October evening, minus the tears. Only this time, Akihiko is there. And he’s staring at him, those eyes piercing through Ugetsu’s flesh. Only this time, Akihiko isn’t gone.

Or maybe he is, in a different way.

Ugetsu clutches the keys and walks outside, greeted by a rush of wind that threatens to make him stagger. Clutching himself—and painting a perfect picture of loneliness in the process—he finds the car (a white mini-van that, upon first being seen, manages to cause his face to twist in distaste) and climbs into the passenger's seat, slamming the door shut. 

And he waits.

As he does, he lets the keys used to let himself into the vehicle lie limp in his hand. He raises his arm until the brass is illuminated by the forgiving light of the streetlamp, eyes landing on the trinkets accompanying the keys. There’s a leather strap that he runs a finger along, stopping when he feels engraved characters beneath the pad of his thumb. He holds it closer to the light, narrows his eyes a little, before making out what they say. _Haruki._

Of course.

And beside it, speckled with flecks of artificial gold, is a leaf. It’s red and orange and textured like if it weren’t plastic and he squeezed tight enough, it’d snap between his fingers and emanate a smell that can be attributed to only one season, one Ugetsu used to love. _Aki._

He tosses the keys onto the glovebox, no longer wanting to observe the reminders that Akihiko has moved on, but it’s futile. Without focusing on keychains, he’s focusing on the car’s scent. It’s sweet—almost sickeningly so. A drastic difference from the ashen air that used to linger around the two of them. It smells like flowers, like spring; it smells like everything that Ugetsu isn’t and never will be, and it suffocates him. 

He almost feels as though it’s sobered him up a little. 

He leans back against the headrest, closing his eyes. He breathes jasmine in and whiskey-induced frustration out.

And after a few moments of Ugetsu sitting there, Akihiko opens the unlocked door. Ugetsu peeks an eye open to glance at him, to watch him take a seat and shut the door, before closing it again and, swimming in a sea of black, admit, “I lied. I didn’t drive.”

There’s a brief pause. Then, as soft as that low, resonating voice can get, comes an, “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

With those two words that are long overdue and should be uttered a thousand more times at least to cover all there is to apologize for, Akihiko’s reply never arrives, even after Ugetsu waits. Instead, the silence is filled with the jingling of keys and the start of the ignition.

And Akihiko drives. Ugetsu floats in a space between consciousness and subconsciousness, between dreaming and being awake. He’s hearing the clicking of the turn signal, hearing Akihiko’s steady, rhythmic breathing, hearing the quiet rumble of the car moving along, but he’s visualizing himself as he was three years ago. Still spoiled, still taking everything he had for granted—

Still with Akihiko. 

Ugetsu hates change. More than anything, he hates that he lost him. 

They drive on. Ugetsu doesn’t have to navigate, so he doesn’t utter a word, and nor does Akihiko. The radio faintly plays a pop song, and Ugetsu keeps time. 

When the car stops, it takes three measures of rest for Akihiko to call out to him. Ugetsu opens his eyes to his house—it feels even stranger calling it his instead of theirs with Akihiko right beside him—looming outside of the window and sighs, pushing the car door open. 

He won’t say goodbye to Akihiko. It took an amount of strength he didn’t know he could muster the last time, and it cut like knives.

But curiously enough, Akihiko pulls the key from the ignition and opens his door too. The action stuns Ugetsu so much that he can’t help but stare with widened eyes and knitted eyebrows, yet Akihiko just walks around the bumper and heads towards the front door. Like he doesn’t notice Ugetsu at all. Like he still lives there. 

And Ugetsu follows like a damn dog—head hung and all.

“Where’s your key?” Akihiko asks upon reaching the front step. Equally as obediently and still drifting in a drunken haze, Ugetsu fishes the loose key to the door from his pocket, fingers brushing his wallet of Italian leather. As Akihiko takes it, he makes sure their hands don’t brush. It’s impossible not to notice.

When Akihiko opens the door and flicks the light on, his nose scrunches. “When was the last time you took the trash out?”

“A few days ago,” Ugetsu dismissively mumbles as he kicks off his shoes, one flying to the left and the other to the right. At least, he thinks it was a few days ago. He can’t quite remember when exactly, but it couldn’t have been too long ago, because the feeling of the wet pavement beneath his bare feet still lingers in his memory. When did it rain last? 

“You sure?”

Ugetsu rolls his eyes, peeling off one sock. The other. “It’s only me here. It’s not like much gets thrown away anyway.”

“Yeah, but shit spoils. You can get sick.”

At that, Ugetsu stares at him, a bored look in his dark eyes. He’ll get sick if he continues to miss meals, only noticing at eight at night that he’s eaten just once in the now culminating day. He’ll get sick if he keeps smoking so many cigarettes, keeps using them as a pain reliever. Truth be told, taking out the fucking garbage is the least of his worries. 

Nonetheless, Akihiko continues into the house, descending the stairs to the basement with which he’s all too familiar, Ugetsu following behind him. At the foot of the stairs, though, as the state of the living space becomes apparent, Akihiko halts.

“Ugetsu . . .”

“What?” Ugetsu dryly asks from where he stands a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s a mess.”

“You don’t get to say that.” Ugetsu brushes past him, not caring to avoid physical touch the same way Akihiko does. He tries to make the fact that he has to maneuver around discarded clothes and sheet music to sit on his bed as discreet as possible—to little avail. “The only reason it looks like this is because you left, anyway.”

He falls backwards, letting his back hit the mattress and a rush of air leave his lungs in the process, and closes his eyes. No longer seeing, he listens. To the sound of Akihiko’s feet against the hard floor, to the sound of the cabinet opening, to the sound of the faucet running. The radio gets turned on, and classical music fills the space.

Ugetsu hates the warmth that floods his chest cavity at the fact that he isn’t alone. The return of something so similar to their cohabitation, even if Akihiko is only visiting, takes him back. 

“Sit up,” Akihiko eventually says. Ugetsu lazily does so, met with a mug being held out in front of him. Without complaining, he takes it. Drinks. He’s acutely aware of Akihiko watching as he does so, and when he finishes it and hands it back, he thinks that he likes being looked after. Cared for. Maybe he just got too used to it when it was still commonplace.

“Come on. We’re cleaning.”

And perhaps it’s because Ugetsu is so stunned by the usage of ‘we’ in reference to the two of them, or maybe because Akihiko turns around too quickly for him to formulate any other response, but he doesn’t protest. He stands, floor cold beneath his feet, and begins bending down to grab stray pieces of the sheet music to Caprice No. 24. They’re completely out of order in his hands, with page one leading into page three leading into page six, but the papers are together, and that’s enough—better than it was before at least. 

They continue that way—with Ugetsu grabbing random things and placing them in places he’ll likely forget come morning, and with Akihiko grabbing clothes and accumulating them into a pile of laundry that hadn’t been done over the past week. It’s quiet, the only sounds other than the Brahms piece playing from the radio being them as they walk, move, and breathe, but Ugetsu finds comfort in it.

Just as he finds comfort in the way Akihiko laughs after he utters some snide remark about a phrase in the concerto (something along the lines of, “I could play that better in my sleep.”). Having not heard that sound in months, it stops him in his tracks. He stares at Akihiko, eighteen again for the second time that night, and feels his heart surge, then break, then mend.

Ugetsu continues to clean, putting all of his energy into organizing the cups in the cabinet. Where they go doesn’t matter in the slightest, but he needs something to focus on.

And when, half an hour later, the house is spotless, bed made and trash disposed of and all, and the music from the radio has been swapped with the low rumble of the washer in the upstairs bathroom, Ugetsu and Akihiko stare at the same spot on the floor. Akihiko is leaning against the counter, and Ugetsu is sitting atop the straightened comforter, the ends of which have been neatly tucked beneath the mattress. 

He senses that Akihiko is trying to figure out how to leave. He’s always been bad at it; his track record is about 100-2. So Ugetsu takes it upon himself, and at the same time, Akihiko’s voice sounds—

“You can leave, you know.”

“I can’t keep taking care of you.”

They both look at each other, green eyes meeting brown only for a moment, before Ugetsu averts his gaze back to the ground. “I know.”

He does. One day, Akihiko is going to become skilled in the department of saying no, of no longer giving into his juvenile temptations. And that’s a day that Ugetsu both dreads and longs for.

“And I probably won’t come back,” Akihiko continues, “unless it’s an emergency. I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Ugetsu takes a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. He’s hardly drunk anymore, only a little drowsy if anything, yet he can’t tell if he’s feeling more or less intensely than he was when the alcohol’s effects were at its peak. 

He lifts his eyes, but not his lowered head. It makes him look pathetic—he’s well aware of that—but he is a bit pathetic, isn’t he? “I wasn’t lying when I said that I was rooting for you. I am. I hope you’re happy and all that.”

“And I hope you will be soon.”

That only makes him feel more pathetic, but Ugetsu takes it. The same way he takes it when Akihiko makes a show out of grabbing his (no, his boyfriend’s) keys from his pocket, “I’m going then.”

At the substitute for a farewell, Ugetsu lifts a hand to serve as a goodbye; the best he can manage, anyway. And Akihiko walks past, up the stairs, and, as indicated by the soft sound of the front door unlatching and shutting, away. 

Ugetsu lays down, eyes on the ceiling. He’s twenty one and only mostly sober this time, but he repeats the question he was asked years ago with a fragile heart in his possession.

“Do you regret leaving Vienna?” Akihiko asked then, though _do you regret meeting me?_ is what he meant. The desperation in his voice, in his eyes, is clear even in retrospect, and so is the fact that he expected an answer that would solidify his faith that love was all it had been chalked up to be. 

What Ugetsu gave, if anything, made that faith crumble.

But now, Ugetsu has a different answer. Twenty one and only mostly sober, he closes his eyes and utters, “Not even a little.”

Ugetsu hates change, always has, but there’s a part of him clinging onto the belief that this one doesn’t have to be so bad. Akihiko said he hopes that Ugetsu will be happy, and all of the complex emotions Ugetsu feels can be simplified down to him hoping for the same.

And in what’s perhaps his first step towards recovery, Ugetsu realizes that what he longs for as he lie in a mattress big enough to fit two isn’t Akihiko’s return.

It’s peace. And maybe, he thinks, peace is possible.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/mafuyuukis)!


End file.
